


Half-numb half-burning

by Yuki1014o



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 12:13:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20742026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuki1014o/pseuds/Yuki1014o
Summary: It's a Sunday afternoon in a cold cathedral, sunlight steaming in warmly through the windows that Chrollo dwells in his phantom-pains.OR:  Chrollo deals with the emotional aftermath of letting the previous eighth spider die.





	Half-numb half-burning

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the mention that the previous eighth spider, before shizuku, was killed in a clash between the Phantom Troupe and Zoldyck family.

There's a kind of dull, bland, tasteless feel to Chrollo's being when he finally steps put of the church; grey eyes looking like unpolished metal. It's not quite like that feeling after you wake up and need to distinguish between dream and reality. But it's something similar.

He isn't slow, but he isn't fast in his steps. Once again, Chrollo replays the memory in his head—tries to ignore all the _other_ ones. The ones where she's laid over, broken, on the ground, bleeding out, eyes going glassy, arm bent black and bruised in an angle that shouldn't be possible, throwing him a half smile.

_(How could he have let his own limb die like that?)_

In this memory; she'd lazily draped herself over a torn couch and glanced at him, face almost blank. _'Hey'_, she'd said, _'if I die, and obviously I won't'_, she added, hastily, like she didn't say that the day before her death, _'do you think you could do me a favor?'_

He'd nodded. _'Only if it isn't unreasonable.'_

She'd grinned. _'Great!'_

And here Chrollo was, since he'd promised that yes, if she, his eight leg, died he would go see the person she'd deemed a suitable replacement. The past tense claws over his mind like a beast, but he's always been good at ignoring things. So here he was, down three back-alleys, staring blankly at the sign of a bookstore. The store is aptly named _'bookstore'_. He isn't sure if he should laugh.

Clutching the dull metal handle—it sends pain throbbing in his shoulder (try as she might, Machi can't fix everything, of course a fight with the Zoldycks will leave it's marks)—Chrollo can't help but wonder if he's done this entirely-too-right, or all-too-wrong.

His right arm is paralyzed, numb and burning at the same time, the other is fine, sore shoulder from too-many hits and too-many disconnections, but useable nonetheless. It feels like he's lost a limb, in more senses than one.

Taking no more hesitation, Chrollo swings the door open; it creaks on its rusty hinges. The man's first impression is _'dark'_. The shelves are sewn together by cobwebs that shine ever-so-slightly in the dark, flickering, light of a cheap light bulb that hangs on the ceiling by a rickety-looking wire cord.

After the too-loud sound of a bell jingling from atop the peeling-paint door, the second thing he hears is a voice chiming out from a chair buried from his sight by shadows and dusty cardboard boxes, it's a remarkably blank voice.

It sounds almost as disjointed as he feels, and Chrollo almost—almost—brushes a finger over his cross-tattoo; a nervous tic. The woman—short black hair, black turtleneck sweater, big wide-rimmed glasses, and striking magenta eyes—peers at him. "Hello." She places her book aside. "What can I do for you?" She, quite frankly, points a finger at a whiteboard that's been nailed into the wall.

Chrollo flicks his eyes over—really wonders why he even came here in the first place; he owes no dues to the dead. A quick skim offers everything from buying the bible, to cleaning up and disposing of criminal evidence.

The next thing he speaks isn't something he planned, and isn't something the young woman across from him expected, either. He, blank faced—ghostly pale skin and glassy grey eyes—asks: "Did you know the eighth spider?"

For a moment, the woman remains blank, only change being the furrow of her brows, before she snaps her fingers, nods. "Ah! Yes, I do. Why? Is she calling in a favor?"

Chrollo half-considers the question, before eventually nodding. "I suppose you could call it that."

-

Shizuku fits like a too-large pair of gloves. She's something new and unfamiliar and Chrollo knows he'll grow into it eventually, he _knows_ that, but for now it's new and almost unpleasant. Shizuku effectively serves the same purpose—maybe that and then some. By all means, the previous(previous) was never anything particularly special in nen. Shizuku has the added benefit of perfect and complete cleanup.

By all means, his new arm is _better_—it doesn't feel like that, though.

Chrollo's shoulder recovers first, no longer stabbing merciless knives of pain through him every time he turns a page, but still aching. His right arm is a whole another story—Feitan thinks they'll need a nen specialist to help in its recovery. It feels less numb now, more burning, and he supposes that's some kind of progress, in some, twisted way.

But ordering Shizuku feels strange, and unfamiliar, she's compliant; content. The previous number eight never was—she had always been more loyal than obedient. It feels the opposite in his new limb, and Chrollo, blooming a headache, needs to remind himself that it's not bad, it's just different. They both have their perks.

Maybe he made the wrong decision, but it's _months_ too-late for him to even _start_ thinking on that. Perhaps it would've been better for them to have stayed, for _him_ to have stayed. But as much as Chrollo wants to act like he's older, Chrollo is young—stupidly young. His nen isn't perfected, he still has so many more abilities to steal and he was at a _disadvantage_. Of course that was his only logical option.

That's always been the rules; _head over limb, spider over head_. But clutching the half-numb half-burning thing he still calls his right arm, Chrollo can't help but wonder if this whole thing has been done entirely-too right, or all-too-wrong.

It's a Sunday afternoon in a cold cathedral, sunlight steaming in warmly through the windows that Chrollo dwells in his phantom-pains.

**Author's Note:**

> What'd you think? I made this late at night so yeah....coonstructive critisism is appriciated!


End file.
